


Free Pass (get your ass in gear)

by ireallyhatecornnuts (CharleyFoxtrot)



Series: Get Your Ass In Gear [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (not between dean and cas), Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, M/M, Sex Outdoors, Sorry Not Sorry, Toys, Unrequited Love, yeah there's a jersey barrier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:03:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharleyFoxtrot/pseuds/ireallyhatecornnuts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean might have been fantasizing about Cas over the last three weeks. Maybe. Just a little bit <i>(a lot, every day, in just about every position)</i>. </p><p>----“I’m fine,” Cas said. “I may have been rather optimistic in my goal to get you alone tonight.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free Pass (get your ass in gear)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [partialdifferential](https://archiveofourown.org/users/partialdifferential/gifts), [Team Abaddon (TheManWhoWouldBeKing)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Team+Abaddon+%28TheManWhoWouldBeKing%29).



> A few weeks ago Misha tweeted a series of pics that showed him and Jensen at NASCAR, my friend Chris mentioned he wants a NASCAR AU, and suddenly an entire alternate universe bloomed to life in my head. This is a sequel to the initial fic I wrote for him; eventually I do plan to write the whole 'verse out, but that may be a long time coming (sorry sorry sorry). 
> 
> Much thanks to mischievousart for the exemplary betawork, as usual. He's basically the best thing to ever happen to my writing. Ever. Also as usual, you can find me at my tumblr, disease-danger-darkness-silence.tumblr.com.

 It wasn’t how Dean would have _preferred_ to spend his Friday evening, but it wasn’t half bad. Crowley knew how to put on a party, at least.

Dean’s unexpected domination of the New Hampshire 300 the weekend previous had put him _way_ up there in the standings. Some officials were so perturbed by the whole thing that they were calling foul for the entirety of Team Winchester, but he maintained his lead and was inching up toward the top five.

On top of that, Jo and Victor had collaborated with Ash and came out with a brand-new exhaust workup for the next season. They were going to be well under-budget (which Crowley always appreciated) without a shit-ton of new modifications (which the _fabricators_ always appreciated).

It was the middle of the season. The team was riding high, they were finally working together with tenuous peace, and more importantly: they were _winning_.

So Crowley threw them a party.

Dean was _entirely_ unsurprised when it was announced (Wednesday) that the staff and crew would be having a party (held in the office instead of any sort of event hall, naturally) that Friday. Becky’s domain would be overtaken by rambunctious mechanics and stuffy administrative people; legend had it that even Missouri Mosely, the much-feared head of Legal, would be there.

Chevy, Chick-fil-A, and American Family Insurance were going so far as to send their representatives. Which was a laugh, because Dean scanned the hall and noted that Crowley was nowhere to be seen.

 _Figures_.

Despite the fact that the gathering was, ostensibly, for the entire team to mix and mingle, Dean was surprised exactly not at all to realize that the administrative team and the tech crew had split themselves to opposite sides of the room (for the most part; Charlie from Financial was talking to Jo, and Adam and Frank were currently involved in what was bound to be some discussion of conspiracy theory with the guy from Chick-fil-A. Bobby, though officially part of the administrative team, carefully confined himself to the tech crew side of the room).

Dean, naturally, had to mix and mingle with _everyone_ , because his was the face that was splashed on merchandise and it was him that had to give all of those stupid interviews. Eventually, though, he was able to slip away from the stuffy suits and wander over next to Victor and Gabriel. The three of them then fell into into an animated discussion of the new exhaust workup that kept them occupied and off everyone else’s radar.

By the time they’d exhausted the subject, the sun had started to go down and the alcohol was flowing a bit more freely: even the admin guys were starting to let loose. Chuck Shurley, who Dean almost _never_ saw despite the fact that he was the head of PR, was dancing awkwardly with Becky, the receptionist; the woman from American Family Insurance had actually shed the jacket of her stern pantsuit and was doing tequila shots with Andy; and naturally Ash, who was _completely_ shithoused by this point, had started taking dares from anyone in the room.

“Kinda fucked up that Crowley didn’t show,” Dean overheard someone say. He turned slightly and saw Rufus, Gabriel’s unofficial second-in-command, talking to Bobby.

“Didja really think he _would_?” Bobby said. The sarcasm was heavy in his voice. “It’s one thing to throw a party for your peons. It’s a whole different ballgame to actually deign to be in the same room as them for _recreational purposes_.” This was said with a terrible approximation of Crowley’s accent, and Rufus wheezed in laughter.

When Dean turned back toward his friends, Victor had disappeared entirely and Gabriel had engaged Jo in what he _really_ hoped wasn’t a pick-up. Jo would break Gabriel in half if he even _tried_.

Overall, the party wasn’t half bad, and the atmosphere was stellar. There were worse places he could be.

Dean wandered over to the refreshment table, which had just been replenished by the catering staff Crowley had hired for the event. He grabbed one of the sliced-up hoagies before they disappeared, and another beer, before heading back to his comfort zone near the mechanics.

He didn’t realize where he was standing until he heard a familiar voice growling from a few feet to his left.

Even now, almost three weeks since their encounter in the shop, Castiel’s voice sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated _want_ down the driver’s spine. As Dean had promised, he’d carefully kept away from the other man, but it was a test of patience and restraint on his part.

Cas didn’t seem to have any problems avoiding him. He didn’t exactly try to stay away, but he didn’t try to approach him either, preferring (apparently) to go on as usual. This was fine with Dean, because the amount of people in the world who knew for sure that he was bisexual was currently limited to a number he could count on one hand.

Still, he thanked whatever God was in charge of awkward situations that the air conditioner in this damn building worked, because he very suddenly felt overheated just from being in Castiel’s general proximity. And seeing as Alabama was having record highs in temperature this summer, it was probably all for the best.

He looked fucking _hot_ tonight, too. All of the tech crew were wearing their official white and red Team Winchester polos, but he had a black blazer thrown over it and dark grey cargo pants that Dean would pay his entire fortune to see him in every day. The way they framed his ass was fucking _criminal_. Ugh, God _hated_ Dean Winchester.

“It’s been better,” he was saying, and Dean realized he was talking to _Victor_. His best friend, Victor; the only guy in the shop who actually knew about what happened three weeks ago. _Awkward_.

“Good,” Victor said, nodding. “Few weeks ago, Dean told everyone it’d gone too far, and I dunno, I just wanted to make sure?” Oh, Dean was going to _kill_ him.

Cas shrugged, taking a sip of his beer. “Like I said, it’s been better. I’m still pretty sure Jo wants to harvest my organs and sell them on the black market, but she’s restraining the urge, so I’ll deal with it.”

Victor snorted. “Yeah, but she wants to do that with most of us. I wouldn’t take it personal.”

Cas sort of smirked and raised his eyebrow before sipping on his beer again.

Just then, a cheer went up from the other side of the tech crew; Ash hopped up onto a table and waved at the assembled crowd.

“Oh God,” Dean said, putting his hand to his forehead. “Not this shit again.”

Castiel and Victor both turned to look at him. Just then, they heard the engineer announce, from his spot on the table, that he was going to do his, “patented Chinese butterfly trick.”

“...Do I want to know?” Castiel asked.

“I’ve seen this before,” Victor said. “You probably don’t.”

“Yeah, no,” Dean agreed, fervently. “It’s kind of disgusting.”

Cas wrinkled his nose and glanced at the clock. “It’s late enough that I can leave without seeming too eager, correct?”

Victor laughed outright. “Eight at night isn’t exactly _early_ , but yeah, you can probably take off if you want.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Cas said, looking a little ill as, up on the table, Ash began the process of intentionally dislocating his shoulders.

“Yeah, _gross_ ,” Dean commented, before turning and walking out of the office as well, surrounded by a growing chant of, “Ash! Ash! _Ash! Ash!_ ”

If he was being honest, Dean would admit that he left mostly because he wanted to look at Cas for a few more minutes. He’d seen the butterfly trick about a billion times before; Ash had been known to be over-eager prove his flexibility and his ability to be outright disgusting at the drop of a hat.

But for the first time in three weeks, here he was in the parking lot, alone with Cas. In the half-light of dusk he looked even more amazing, his eyes glittering from the overhead lighting. And those _pants_.

He had his hands in his pockets and he was facing the now-set sun as it took its light with it. The air was mostly still, the occasional evening breeze rustling his hair. Even the humidity and heat couldn’t get Dean down; Cas was fucking _gorgeous_.

“Did you come out here for a particular reason?” Cas startled him by asking. Dean blinked and shrugged.

“Not really. The butterfly thing is fuckin’ _gross_ , though.” The following silence was awkward, the kind of extended silence you got between exes who were suddenly forced to interact with each other when invited to the same social functions. Which was weird because last time Dean checked, he and Cas weren’t exes. Hell, they hadn’t even _fucked_.

Cas sighed, shook his head, and headed off toward the practice track. Dean wasn’t the only one who used it, of course, but ostensibly Crowley owned it so by extension, he considered it _his_ track. After a few moments’ indecision, Dean followed the other man.

The crew chief was headed toward the other side, by the maintenance building and the cement dividers that surrounded it. Dean wondered, suddenly, if he had to take a leak, but Cas knew he was there and hadn’t told him to get lost so he figured he was welcome. Or at least not bothering him.

The two of them walked in companionable silence for a few minutes, shuffling across dirt and gravel and then concrete. Around them, the crickets began to chirp, the sounds stifled in the humid, overwarm Alabama air. By the time they’d reached the maintenance building and walked toward the other side of it, Dean had worked up a relatively decent sweat just by _existing_.

He was pondering the unfairness of Alabama summers when he found himself pinned to the side of the building - the side facing _away_ from the shop - and kissed soundly.

It took him a few seconds to catch up, but muscle memory kicked in near-instantly. By the time he realized that he was full-on making out with Cas ( _finally!_ ), he already had his tongue halfway down the other man’s throat.

He pulled away slightly, banging his head on the wood slats of the building behind him. “Jesus Christ,” he said, shifting in an awkward attempt to hide the growing disaster in his pants. “I thought you wanted to forget this.”

Cas raised his eyebrow. “I never said that,” he said. He narrowed his eyes. “Of course, if you want -”

“Fuck, no,” Dean said, shaking his head. “I just thought -”

“Dean,” Cas said, and the way he said it sent shivers down Dean’s spine, despite the hot, humid Alabama air. “You’re not generally unintelligent, but you’re being _stupid_.”

Dean stared at him for a second. “You know, insulting the dude you wanna bang isn’t usually the best foreplay.”

Cas shrugged. “It’s worked for us so far. Are we doing this, or not?”

“ _Hell_ yeah,” Dean said, pulling the crew chief closer to him. He let Cas lead: it was, as they say, his ballgame. But Dean wasn’t used to being a passive partner in sex, and slowly he started to turn the tables, pushing back, guiding Cas toward the protective cement Jersey barrier that surrounded the maintenance building on three sides. By the time they got to it, things had gotten pretty hot and heavy: Dean had managed to pull the other man’s blazer off and unbutton the collar of his polo shirt, and Cas was sucking a hickey onto Dean’s collarbone. This was accompanied by a teasing touch of the teeth that made Dean hiss into Castiel’s hair.

They made out against the Jersey barrier for a while, hands everywhere and breaths growing sharp and short. Eventually Dean, without really thinking about it, hefted his hands up under the other man’s thighs and lifted him up to sit on the barrier. He didn’t expect the startled gasp and uncomfortable squirming, mainly because it was so out of character from what he’d come to expect from _Cas_.

“Uh, you...okay?” Dean asked, looking at him. And _wow_ , Cas was only an inch or two shorter than him, but now that he was looking right in Dean’s eyes without having to crane his head upward, _huh_. That was both a little bit intimidating and hot.

“I’m fine,” Cas said. His eyes darted away from Dean’s face. “I may have been rather optimistic in my goal to get you alone tonight.”

“What,” Dean said. Because that was the kind of statement that really needed explanation.

Castiel’s cheeks were flushed red, and Dean thought he might actually be embarrassed instead of just turned on.

“I’ve got a, uh, plug. I put it in before I came to the party,” Cas explained.

Yeah, _definitely_ embarrassed.

“You went through that entire party with a butt plug shoved up your ass,” Dean said. _God_. That was - actually _incredibly_ hot.

“Yes,” Cas replied. He bit his lip and shifted a little; that minute action caused the majority of the muscles in his body to tense slightly, and a moan slipped out of his lips before he could really control himself.

“That,” Dean pronounced, “is probably the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, which Dean was coming to understand was probably going to be something of a theme in their encounters. He reached down into the left cargo pocket, long fingers unbuttoning the pocket deftly, before slipping them in to retrieve something. When his hand came out, it was clutching a few condoms and a smallish bottle of lube.

“Like I said,” and Dean didn’t know that he’d ever heard Castiel sound quite _that_ sardonic, “I was feeling optimistic.”

Dean laughed and tightened his hand on the other man’s hip, leaning forward to place a soft kiss to his lips. “God, you’re perfect.”

“Hardly,” Cas said, voice quiet, lips brushing Dean’s as he spoke. He deepened the kiss for a brief moment before pulling away again. “I’m merely _impatient_.”

Dean laughed again, and then the two of them got back to the very serious issue between them - namely, their pants. Dean wasn’t exactly sure how _Cas_ felt about the issue, but he was starting to loathe clothing as a whole, especially when it was on Castiel’s body. He fumbled with his fly (button-up _again_ , what the hell was this man’s problem with the ease and convenience of zippers?) before Cas slapped him away and, with his single free hand, undid his own pants.

Dean, for his part, was pretty mesmerized watching those fingers work the buttons through their corresponding holes, and before he could stop himself, he was blurting out, “Fuck, now I think I have a hand kink.”

Castiel’s responding snort of laughter brought him back to the present. Dean ducked his head and fumbled with his own fly for a few seconds, sighing in relief when he was able to pull his pants and boxers down over his hips to mid-thigh. Cas had already pulled his dick out, although his pants and underwear were both still up, and when the two of them leaned back toward each other to kiss, the crew chief surrounded both of their cocks with the one free hand.

“Shit,” Dean groaned into the kiss. “Cas, the things you do to me. You have no idea.”

“I’ve something of an idea,” Cas replied, and fuck, his tone had gone up about a half an octave as he stroked the both of them. He was squirming atop the cement barrier, and the fact that Dean knew there was something there - something fucking up into him while he jerked them both off - turned the driver on more than he knew how to handle, sending his brain buzzing.

“Jesus, stop, _stop_ ,” Dean said, panting harshly. He put a hand down to still Castiel’s. “Fuck, I’m gonna come way the hell too fast if you keep doing that.” His other hand slid to rest on Castiel’s hip, tugging the other man toward him before he had a chance to think about it.

Cas got the message anyway, sliding down off the barrier and shoving Dean back a few inches so he could navigate; a moment after that, he was facing opposite Dean, his pants and underwear pushed down to his knees. He bent over the Jersey barrier, shirt still on, bare ass up in the air, legs spread as far as they could go with his pants blocking the way. “If you’re that close, Winchester, I suppose you better get to it.”

Dean stared down at Castiel’s ass; he hadn’t been lying. There, between his asscheeks (asscheeks that Dean may or may not have fantasized about biting and licking over the last few weeks, now that he knew what they looked like naked) was the end of a translucent silicone butt plug. Dean couldn’t guess at the size of the plug, but there it was, and it was sexy as _fuck_.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean groaned, closing his eyes. “You’re gonna _kill_ me one of these days, Cas.”

“I’m sure you have plenty more to worry about on the track in that regard,” Cas said. Dean couldn’t see his face, but he could practically _hear_ him rolling his eyes. “I’m the least of your worries.”

“No, you’re _really_ not,” Dean said. He bit his lip. Earlier this afternoon, after everyone had clocked out and gone home to change for the party, Cas had sat on his bed and done _this_. He could see it - Cas bent over on his knees, ass in the air, slowly fucking himself on his own fingers to prepare for the plug. The guy had a poker face to rival all, but Dean liked to imagine that he’d teased himself a little bit, stroked his cock even though he knew he wasn’t gonna get off, and the idea of it made Dean groan.

Cas turned around slightly, looking at Dean over his shoulder, and the exasperation on his face quickly turned into a look of amusement and all-out lust when he saw what Dean was looking at. “You’re thinking about it,” he said, his voice dropping into his sex register again. “Me putting it in.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, feeling breathless. “Yeah, I _really_ am.” He watched as the muscles tensed slightly in Castiel’s legs, shadows playing across the flesh in the fading daylight, and a jolt of burning _want_ shot through him.

“I didn’t have one,” Cas said, still looking directly at Dean. “I had to have it rush-delivered to get here on time, since Alabama criminalized sex shops. It took about fifteen minutes to put in.” He paused and swallowed. “I almost came twice, and it took me twenty minutes to calm down enough to be presentable for the party tonight. I talked to the representative for Chick-fil-A while I had a butt plug up my ass.”

“Jesus Christ, you _are_ perfect,” Dean said, smirking. He ran his hand down Castiel’s ass, letting his fingertips trail along the edge of the plug base. Cas shuddered and his head drooped down; he panted slightly, gripping the edge of the Jersey barrier to keep from squirming. Dean continued the circuit, circling the base twice before digging his fingertips in slightly to grip at it. Slowly, he pulled it out; each inch had Cas gasping his name and shaking in place.

By the time Dean had pulled the toy out, the other man was a complete _wreck_ : the skin of his lower back was covered in goosebumps and he kept making these high-pitched, whining noises that should be _criminalized_. The things they were doing to Dean’s stomach, _Christ_.

“Cas, you’re a kinky little _shit_ ,” Dean said, staring at the plug. It wasn’t as big as his dick, but it was getting there, and the guy’d had it in him for _hours_.

“I’m a six-foot tall man, Dean, I’m not little. _Are you going to fuck me or not?_ ” Cas demanded, thrusting the hand holding the lube and condoms back toward Dean. His voice had reached a pitch that seemed like it should be _impossible_ for him, but fuck, Dean knew the feeling: he was so turned on that he thought he thought he could probably sing soprano right about now.

“Yeah, uh, yeah, okay,” Dean said, intelligently. He grabbed for the lube and condoms; the condom was easy. He had practice with this, and he rolled it on with ease. The lube was a little messier, mainly because he oversquirted in his excitement and got it all over his hand. He slicked himself up before adding some to Castiel’s hole, spreading the stuff along the outside before easing his fingers in slightly to tease the inner rim.

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas said.

“Impatient,” Dean chided. He drew closer to the other man, his cock bumping up against him; using his hand, he navigated to the left slightly and suddenly, there he was, he was _in_.

“Fuck,” Dean said, hips sliding smoothly forward. There was no resistance, just tightness and warmth.

Cas threw his head back and let out a loud noise, something that Dean was pretty sure was pleasure but that he didn’t have words to describe: some cross between a howl, a scream, and a moan. He slammed his now-empty hand over his mouth to stifle the sound, and he thrust his hips futilely into the air between him and the Jersey barrier.

“Jesus Christ, you’re gonna be the death of me,” Dean moaned, bending over and touching his forehead to the back of the other man’s shirt. “All fuckin’ ready to go, _waiting_ for me. Shit, Cas, the things I wanna do to you.”

“Yes, to all of them,” Cas said. His voice had taken on a whining note, slightly muffled. “Just please, _fuck me_.”

Dean pulled back before thrusting forward sharply, Cas keening his approval between his fingertips (still covering his mouth). The driver managed this while bent over; his right hand, which had been caressing Castiel’s leg, was now reaching in front of the other man, grasping his length, pumping in time.

“Dean, _yes_ ,” Cas moaned.

Dean set them a steady pace, rough and fast, his hand trying to keep up. Cas was making these little gasping noises that were absolutely _criminal_ , doing shit to Dean’s insides that made his toes curl inside his boots, rocking back to meet Dean thrust for thrust. Fuck, they were still mostly clothed, screwing the shit out of each other just barely out of sight of his fucking shop, out in the open where anyone could catch them.

This, Dean thought, must be what it felt like to spontaneously combust.

Castiel’s shirt was rucked up underneath his armpits, bunched in a way that probably wasn’t very comfortable, but Dean didn’t _care_. He stooped slightly, licking at the other man’s exposed skin and tasting salt and musk; he pressed a kiss to his spine before snapping his hips back into place.

Cas made a strangled noise and tensed up, muscles clamping down around Dean’s cock. Dean moaned, pumping his hips a few more times as he stroked Cas through his orgasm. He could feel hot jizz dripping down his hand, and that more than anything was what sparked his own peak, slamming into him so hard he was left breathless.

They stayed there for a few moments, regaining their breath, before Cas stirred.

“We should probably clean up,” he said, diplomatically. “Before anyone finds us.”

Dean swallowed. “Yeah, probably,” he said, regret lacing his tone. He wanted to stay here all night; hell, he’d be amenable to heading back to his place for a few hours instead, anything to keep Cas around where Dean could smell him, kiss him, fuck him ( _be_ fucked by him, whatever, Dean wasn’t too picky).

But Dean wasn’t stupid. He knew what this was.

He gripped the base of his dick carefully, holding the edge of the condom as he pulled out of Cas, wincing occasionally as oversensitive flesh dragged over the ridges there. He tied the rubber off after he removed it, pulling back on it and launching it over the fence, into the field next door.

“Very mature,” Cas noted. He’d pulled his pants back up, tucking his polo in as he did so. The driver ignored him, instead wrinkling his nose and looking down at his hand.

“I am _covered_ in your freakin’ jizz, dude. A little help here?”

Cas rolled his eyes and stooped over to retrieve his abandoned blazer. He eyed it for a second before sighing and allowing Dean to wipe his hand clean on the inside of it.

“You’re paying for the dry-cleaning bill,” Cas informed him.

“Sure thing,” Dean said, humming happily under his breath as he tucked himself away and set his clothes back in order.

Cas bundled up the remaining condoms, lube, and the plug into the blazer as well, so focused on what he was doing that he didn’t realize that Dean had come up right alongside him until Dean had leaned over to kiss him.

He responded immediately, setting the bundle of cloth and debauchery on the Jersey barrier in favor of wrapping his hands around Dean’s jaw, stroking at the skin beneath his ears and making him shudder.

It wasn’t the fervent making out from before their tryst, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t passionate: fuck, if Dean still had the stamina he’d had as a teenager he’d probably be ready to go again. Cas kissed with _intent_ , sliding into all of the cracks in his armor and slicking his lips up in the process.

Dean sucked Castiel’s lower lip into his mouth, biting gently on it for a second, which had the other man clenching at his hair so hard Dean whimpered slightly. He wondered if there was a possibility for a round two, when a shriek interrupted them.

Instantly, they parted, turning in alarm toward the source of the noise. There, about eight feet away from them, was Jo, shaking in rage (shock?) from where she had obviously come up on them around the corner of the building.

“Shit,” Dean said.

“I can’t _believe_ this,” Jo said, stalking closer. She got all up in Castiel’s personal space. “You _asshole_!”

“What the _fuck_ , Jo,” Dean exclaimed. He went to pull her off of Cas, but she’d always been good at evading him growing up and the skill, it seemed, had translated into adulthood. Instead, she shoved the crew chief, hard, sending him careening backward into the Jersey barrier.

“You son of a _bitch_ ,” she said. Tears had begun to form at the corner of her eyes. “You steal _everything_ from me. This too?”

Oh, _shit_.

“I _hate_ you,” she hissed, turning and storming away from the two of them. “I hate _both_ of you.”

They stared after her for a few seconds before either of them spoke.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Dean said, eyes wide. He turned toward Cas, whose hands were up in a defensive position already.

“Calm down,” he instructed. He was still half-sprawled across the cement barrier, staring at where Jo had just disappeared.

“Cas, Jo’s basically my _sister_ ,” Dean said. He could feel the beginning edges of panic creeping in, making it hard to breath. “Ellen practically _raised_ me and Sam.”

“Dean, _calm down_ ,” Cas repeated. He looked horror-struck as well.

“I didn’t _know_ ,” Dean said. He turned and stared back toward the shop, willing the last ten minutes to have never happened. “Cas, what do I _do_?”

Cas came up alongside him; out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see that he’d retrieved his blazer and the things he’d hidden inside it as well. “ _You_ aren’t going to do anything. I, however, am going to go offer Miss Harvelle a ride home, as I am fully aware that she got a ride with Ash.” He held out the fabric bundle, obviously asking Dean to deal with it for now.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Dean asked, warily. He accepted the blazer hesitantly, but he was pretty sure he could get it somewhere without it being noticed. Hell, he could probably just stick it in his car before heading inside.

Cas shrugged. “She needs someone to hate, to rage at. As you said, she’s practically your sister; do you really want her to hate _you_?”

Dean had to admit he had a point. “Not really,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. He sighed. “What a fucking mess.”

Cas sighed as well. “Go back to the party, Dean. I’ll handle this.”

Dean watched the crew chief stride away and frowned. If he was _really_ lucky, the other man wouldn’t be found in _pieces_ the next morning.

 

**๏ ๏ ๏ ๏ ๏**

 

Castiel didn’t consider himself a particularly cowardly man, but he had to admit to a certain amount of trepidation as he approached Jo Harvelle, who had retreated to the rarely-used north section of the parking lot and appeared to be crying. It wasn’t so much that she was unpredictable; Castiel himself had observed her and the rest of his coworkers over the last four months, and had through that observation learned what to expect from them.

Frankly, it was _because_ of that observational habit that he was so unnerved. He should have been _well_ aware of her less-than-sisterly feelings toward Dean Winchester, if only because it affected his crew. She must have had years of practice at covering it up, because not only did he not pick up on it, but neither had _Dean_.

Still, Castiel gathered his thoughts and started toward her. He must have made more noise than he thought because she turned toward him; the little makeup that she had put on for the party was running down her face along with her tears, and her eyes were red.

“Go _away_ ,” she snarled. “You’ve ruined _everything_ already. Enough for one night, don’t you think?”

“Jo -” he began, hesitantly.

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” she said, pointing at him. “ _You_ don’t get to call me that.” With that, she began to move toward him and Castiel grimly accepted that he was probably going to get hit. Hell, he probably deserved it, sleeping with a coworker and (however unintentional his actions were) destroying the dreams of one of the brightest people he knew.

Still, he held his hands in front of him, defensively. It was instinct at this point, from years of growing up with brothers who were more likely to punch him than hug him; this was why he was so startled when Jo threw herself into his arms and began sobbing on his shoulder.

Castiel froze, not knowing the proper protocol for the situation, before letting out a breath and slowly bringing his arms around her.

“It’s not _fair_ ,” she said, her voice muffled by the fabric of his polo shirt.

“It’s not,” he agreed. And it really wasn’t: In a fair world, Jo Harvelle would be the crew chief here and be married to Dean Winchester and probably would have had a child or two by now. Her dreams would have been achieved; the life she’d striven for would have been within her grasp.

Castiel knew a fair bit about chasing unattainable dreams. He had a mostly-wasted engineering degree and a broken relationship with his parents to prove that. So he did what he wished someone had done for him when _he’d_ realized it was never going to go his way: he held her close and let her cry.

In between heaving sobs, Jo somehow managed to intimate that this wasn’t the right way of things, that Dean was supposed to stop seeing her as one of the guys and fall in love with her, that this was the last piece of the puzzle of her life and now it was missing and she was incomplete. Castiel’s heart broke a little more with each tidbit, but he said nothing. If he had any idea how, he’d make Dean fall in love with her, even if it meant he never got to touch him again _(even though he had a sick sort of feeling that he was falling in love with the man himself)_ , but he couldn’t, and Castiel was just selfish enough to want to keep Dean for himself.

It took a while, but eventually Jo realized that she was clinging to her arch-nemesis in the parking lot of their place of employment, and she stopped crying. Castiel sighed and let her go.

She looked even worse than before, and he was certain that his shirt was a complete write-off from the amount she’d cried and snotted into it. Still, if Castiel didn’t consider himself a coward, he was sure that Jo considered herself even less of one, and she proved it by looking right back at him, gaze steady.

“If you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll break your legs,” she said. Castiel snorted.

“Not that it’s something you’d have to worry about,” he said, “but I believe you. Fully.”

They were silent for a few more seconds before he sighed and opened his hands up, borderline-placating. “Do you want a ride home?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t need your _pity_ , Novak.” She crossed her arms defensively, daring him to speak.

He raised his eyebrows. “I’m not pitying you, I’m offering you a ride home so you don’t have to hotwire Ash’s car - or, God forbid, your _mother’s_. I’m not entirely sure Crowley is willing to pay bail, and come Monday I’m going to need my car chief back at her station. We’re going to start fabricating and it would be highly annoying to have to work around your absence.”

She stared at him for a second and then started laughing outright. Using the heel of her palm, she wiped the remaining tears out of her eyes before looking off to the side. Castiel could see, out of the corner of his eye, that Dean had made his way back to the shop and was walking back through the doors, although the other man had no real means of knowing they were there. Their little corner of the parking lot was dark and there were several cars between him and them.

Jo sighed, then turned back to Castiel. “Yeah, a ride would be nice,” she admitted.

Pretty much everyone on the crew had decent cars; it came with the territory. Castiel’s was no different; an almost brand-new Chevrolet Impala had been given to him as a promotional item when Bobby had hired him on. He was fully aware of what Dean would have to say about the new Impala line and how it fared against his ‘67, but Castiel didn’t care: it was _his_.

The best thing about it, bar none, was that he could start the car remotely; because he’d had the AC on when he’d shut it off, by the time the two of them actually reached it they actually _shivered_ getting into the damn thing.

“Pretty sweet ride,” Jo said, looking around in interest. “‘course, Dean’d make fun of you for like twenty years because of it, but you know; it’s nice.”

“I didn’t pick it out,” Castiel said, buckling his seatbelt. “It was given to me.”

She wrinkled her nose while doing likewise. “Ugh, really? Fuck, I’m _glad_ I didn’t get crew chief if they were giving out _Impalas_. I was hoping for the Corvette, or at _least_ the Camaro.”

Castiel rolled his eyes as he shifted into gear. “I believe Crowley got a Corvette for his troubles at the beginning of this season. I’m not entirely certain if he paid for it; in all likelihood it was a gift. Bobby, I believe, was offered his choice of a Camaro or an Avalanche and told them, and I’m quoting now, to, ‘go fuck yourselves.’”

Jo laughed.

The two of them were relatively quiet for the vast majority of the drive, outside of her giving directions to the apartment she lived in by herself. It wasn’t until they were nearing her block that she turned to him.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked. A quick glance in her direction showed that she was frowning and a little hesitant, so it was something she’d been dwelling on for a while. “I’ve treated you like shit for going on four months; you have _every reason_ to give it back. Hell, I don’t even think I’d _blame_ you.”

Castiel shrugged as he pulled up in front of her apartment building. “I don’t think your animosity toward me has anything to do with me understanding your plight; even empathizing with it.”

She blinked. “Jesus Christ. Are you trying to tell me that you’re actually a decent person?”

Castiel frowned and turned toward her. “I - try to be? I’m not sure I understand the question.”

She shook her head. “I’ve spent four months building you up as this, I dunno, _monster_ in my head. You ride the hell out of us in the shop and in the pit, you never hang out with anyone after work, and you got the job - and the guy - I wanted. I was so _sure_ you were a dick.”

Castiel smirked. “I can assure you that I often am.”

She laughed, a little sadly. Then she sighed and stared at her apartment building for a minute; Castiel let her mope for a while before he spoke.

“One of my cousins once told me that the best cure for disappointment is a weekend out,” he said. “Don’t quote me on this, because he’s irresponsible at best, but he claims there’s nothing like a night at a club and knocking a few drinks back to remind you that life is, occasionally, awesome.”

Jo snorted. “Last time I went clubbing I wound up table-dancing and got grounded for a month. I mean, I wasn’t even eighteen yet so I can kind of see mom’s point, but still - probably not the best idea.” She wrinkled her nose again. “That sounds like something _Gabriel_ would tell me to do.”

Castiel chuckled. “I doubt you’d wind up dancing on tables. I’ve seen you dance in the shop. It’s a lost cause; you’d break your neck.”

She raised her eyebrow. “Is that a dare?”

“If you choose to make it one, I suppose. If you come in with a broken leg on Monday I’m not going easy on you; I _did_ warn you not to dance on tables.”

“It’s not a real dare unless I have something to win, you know,” she prodded. He rolled his eyes, but went along with it.

“Very well. Assuming you go to a club and dance on a table, without breaking any bones, I’ll let you run the crew for the 355 in New York.” Jo looked thrilled to hear this and held her hand out to shake on it; Castiel carefully didn’t mention that he’d been planning to do this already.

She looked back out at her apartment building for a few seconds before visibly shaking off the burden she was carrying: she straightened both spine and shoulders and sat taller in the seat, inhaling and then exhaling deeply, before turning to look at him.

“Thanks,” she said. He nodded at her, watching as she climbed out of the car and strode toward the door of the building; he didn’t leave until she’d let herself in.

Jo Harvelle, he thought, had big things in store for her.

 

**๏ ๏ ๏ ๏ ๏**

 

Monday morning, Dean got into the shop early. He hadn’t heard from Cas or Jo all weekend, and he had spent a good chunk of it worrying himself sick - Jo could have slaughtered Cas (he wouldn’t put it past her, to be honest; she wasn’t generally a vindictive person, but when she decided to put you on her shit-list, all bets were off); things could be even worse than they were before and now neither of them would talk to him; Jo could have told anyone and _everyone_ about what she’d stumbled upon and thus ruined his career; Hell, maybe Cas had even discovered a heretofore unheard-of attraction to women and the two of them had wound up in bed together.

Yeah, that last one twinged a bit more than Dean had expected, but Dean was a pro at compartmentalization so he just shoved it into a nice neat corner of his brain marked, “do not think about this.” Instead, he went to work a little early, found Victor (who was _always_ there early, the fucking goody-two-shoes that he was), and told him the whole thing.

“Jesus Christ,” Victor said, shaking his head. “That’s messed up.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean said. He ran his hands down his face. “I haven’t heard from either of them and fuck, Vic, _Jo_.”

“Yeah, man, that wasn’t, uh -” And Victor shook his head again. “I could have _sworn_ Jo was gay, man.”

Dean laughed. “I wouldn’t let her hear you say that, dude, she’ll kick your _ass_.”

The engine specialist had moved back to his workstation and Dean had cornered Bobby to try to distract himself when Cas came in, right at eight as usual. He didn’t acknowledge anyone, simply heading toward his desk and beginning to sort through his things to start his day; all normal on his part, or so it seemed.

Then again, Dean had direct evidence that Castiel Novak was pretty much the world’s best actor, so maybe he should try asking him later.

Just as Dean had thought that, Jo came in (five minutes late, as usual), setting her things down at her workbench and acting like everything was the same as any other day. She did shoot Dean a slightly-sad smile but other than that, everything was normal.

Until she’d gotten her things ready, at which point she stalked over to Castiel’s workstation and slammed a piece of paper down on his desk. He glanced over at her, blinking owlishly.

“Proof,” she said, a smirk playing on her face. “I win and _you owe me_.”

Cas glanced down at whatever she’d put on his desk and visibly restrained himself from smiling. “I suppose this _does_ constitute proof. Alright, Jo, you can lead the crew in New York.”

Jo let out a whoop and spun in place for a second before heading back to her desk, a jaunty jiggle to her step.

Bobby stared at the scene, and then turned back to Dean. “I thought they hated each other.”

Dean had been stunned at first, but a slow smile had begun to spread over his face. “I guess they worked it out,” he replied.

“Good,” Bobby grunted out. He left Dean on the shop floor, heading for his office. “Maybe this place can calm the fuck down now. We got less than a week to fix that collision damage and it’d be nice if the crew’d do some _actual work_ around here for once.” This was said with a fair amount of venom, but in Bobby’s defense, Ash was currently trying to teach Gabriel the Chinese Butterfly Trick.

Dean turned back toward Jo, who was humming happily to herself at her workstation, and a sudden, dawning horror gripped him. Somehow, Cas and Jo had made peace with each other. Which meant that they were going to spend their time cooperating. _Colluding_ , even. Castiel was the kind of person who would collude. With Jo.

He was doomed.


End file.
